


The East Wind Echoes

by SherlockWatson_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Minor Character Deaths, Not S4 Compliant, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:02:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28690623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/pseuds/SherlockWatson_Holmes
Summary: There's a new serial killer in London, leaving tantalising clues that have a special meaning to Sherlock. Is he somehow linked to the crimes, and will he be able to protect the ones he loves?A post S3 case fic, written for NaNoWriMo 2020.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 54
Kudos: 39
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holmesian_love](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmesian_love/gifts).



> For my dear friend Harmony. A little thank you for your friendship, and all of the delicious angst you gave me in 2020.
> 
> This fic ignores TAB and T6T entirely. Eurus does feature, but she is NOT the same Eurus from S4 - no superpowers here!
> 
> Shout out to my amazing beta @alto_mumma. This would have been a complete mess without her.

His last fare had been a nightmare: a batty old woman who had talked about her cats incessantly for the full forty minute drive. At least she’d paid him extra to convince him to break his “no south of the river after nine pm” rule. He sighed as he pulled into a parking space at the end of Porlock Street; _I_ _’ll never get a bloody fare for the return journey._

Patting down his jacket pockets, he locates his cigarettes, and clambers out of the car. _S_ _tupid rules preventing_ _me_ _from smoking in_ _my_ _own damn cab._

Turning his coat collar up against the January chill, he rests against the car door and lights up.

He never hears the gunshot.

**

The sunlight shining through the large glass patio doors illuminates the three people seated in the sparsely furnished reception room, though it fails to melt away the frosty atmosphere therein. The glow gives the room an airy and bright ambience, in stark contrast to the conversations that take place there.

John and Mary Watson are seated at opposite ends of a soft, plush, cream sofa, as far away as the space allows. _Not the stereotypical therapist’s couch_ , John mused when they entered for their first appointment ten days ago. Mary is heavily pregnant, with only three weeks to go until her due date. She wears her obnoxiously bright red coat, as if it were a suit of armour, her hands clutched tightly beneath her belly as she looks down at her flat, white, scuffed trainers, and the dirty marks on the coffee coloured carpet. John clenches the fingers of his left hand in his lap. His right, clad in a dark blue cashmere sweater (a gift from Sherlock, that Mary wasn’t impressed to see him wearing to their appointment), is spread out on the armrest in a display of nonchalance that isn’t fooling the therapist in the room.

Dr Erin Farrell: marriage counsellor, with a PhD in clinical psychology, and a special interest in Emotionally Focussed Therapy. She’s in her early fifties, John would estimate, with her grey blond hair, cut in a bob, framing her pretty oval face. Her knee length beige pencil skirt has a matching jacket draped over the back of her chair, taken off at the beginning of each session. John wonders why she even bothers putting it on at all. A plain white blouse and cream high-heeled courts complete the purposely neutral outfit. Everything about her, and the room, is plain, unimaginative, and characterless. Despite this, John finds himself noticing her: the shape of her body (in damn good shape for her age), the swell of her breasts beneath her shirt, and the curve of her shapely thigh as her skirt hitches each time she crosses her legs. A bit not good.

The Watsons had found Dr Farrell after many hours of tedious internet searches for a local, female, therapist: Mary supposing that a female would be more likely to take her side, and John simply being fed up with having his life dissected by a man. He hadn’t wanted to return to Ella; it seemed unfair to Mary to use a therapist already privy to so much of his life before. With (and without) Sherlock. They needed someone neutral, and Dr Plain Suit Farrell certainly fit that description.

John doesn’t know if it’s possible to save their marriage, but with a baby on the way, he has to try. Therapy is all about being honest with each other and with your therapist, but when your therapist doesn’t have the security clearance to be told the truth about the issues that bring you to her, well… that only makes the whole process ten times harder than it already is. And it’s already damn hard: John hates talking about his emotions and feelings, almost as much as Sherlock does, and anything Mary says has to be taken with a pinch of salt.

Their first session hadn’t gone as well as they had hoped (though it went about as well as John _expected)_. They had talked about how they had met, married, and fallen pregnant, with ease, but when Dr Farrell asked them what had prompted them to seek counselling, they spoke over each other.

‘He doesn’t trust me any more.’

‘She’s a liar.’

The session dissolved into an argument, with Dr Farrell writing notes until she cut them off, asking them to discuss, before the next session, the issues they each wanted to raise, and the outcome they were hoping to reach. So when they arrived for their second session, John could be forgiven for assuming this was where they were going to begin.

‘Tell me about your sex life.’

John almost chokes on his first sip of water, while Mary has a face like thunder, sitting silently for a full thirty seconds, glaring alternately between Erin and John, refusing to answer, and leaving it to her husband to stutter out a response.

‘We haven’t… um… since the honeymoon. Five -’

‘-six.’

‘Sorry, _six_ months ago.’

‘And has that been an issue for you?’ she asks innocently, in that way that psychologists do when they already know the answer to the question.

‘No.’

‘Yes.’ Mary speaks over him, and John is furious – she’s _never_ brought this up in private! He’d managed with his hand for the last six months, why the hell couldn’t she?

Dr Farrell makes notes before closing her book again and leaving the topic alone. ‘Okay, so last time we saw each other, I asked you to think about why you have each sought therapy, and the outcome you are hoping for. John, would you like to begin?’

A veteran of therapy, John found it easier to talk than he thought he would, easier than it had been with Ella, and once they started, the words seemed to cascade: Mary lying about her name, her past, her betrayal of Sherlock, and how John hadn’t found out any of this until they were married and expecting a child. He couldn’t stop talking about his best friend and everything he had been through, and how much it hurt that Mary could do what she did to him – how she could do that to _John._ That after losing him for two years, and Mary being part of his grieving and moving on process, she still didn’t seem to understand what he meant to him. Lying about her name he could deal with. The problems of her past are her business, after all, and they seemed almost inconsequential in comparison.

Mary hadn’t been reticent on her turn either, saying she felt abandoned when John moved out for five months during the pregnancy, only a month after getting married, and communicating only through occasional text messages. Though she had conveniently glossed over the real reason.

‘He spent all of his time with his Sherlock _._ Though that wasn’t really any different before he moved out. He spent so much of his honeymoon messaging his _best friend,_ you have to wonder if he knew who he’d actually married.’

‘Well, we all know how you feel about him, don’t we?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You know _exactly_ what I mean!’ He gives a side glance to Erin, who is watching them out of the corner of her eye as she writes in quick shorthand in her notebook. The topic of the best friend appears to be a volatile one for both of them. She looks up when she realises they’ve stopped speaking.

‘Let’s start at the beginning. Mary, could you tell me why you lied to John about your past?’

‘Sorry, you don’t have the security clearance to know about that’, she apologises, without a hint of sincerity.

Erin sighs inwardly. Her job is almost impossible if they won’t confide in her.

‘Fine. I’d done some illegal things and I was trying to hide from some trouble. I didn’t want John to know that side of me, it was finished with. He never would have found out if Sherlock hadn’t -’

‘Mary.’ John warns.

‘ _What?_ I get that you were upset that I lied to you, and about the… other thing… But you moved in with him for five months! What must that have looked like?’

‘Like I needed somewhere to stay because my wife turned out to be a liar! You betrayed him. You betrayed _me,_ yet he still spent every day trying to convince me to forgive you and move back in with you.’ He doesn’t say move back _home_ – it will never be home. That honour belongs to 221B Baker Street, and always will.

‘Maybe he just didn’t want you around’, Mary sneers, and John glares daggers at her. If looks could kill, they would no longer need to spend money on therapy.

Erin interrupts them before they can start arguing again, ‘I’d like to talk more about this betrayal in the next session. It’s clearly integral to your decision to be here, so you need to find some way you can discuss it with me, if you really want me to be able to help.’ She looks at them both over the top of her thick framed glasses, like a school mistress, before letting the subject drop.

‘John, you’re very close to Sherlock. From what you’ve said, he seems to care a lot about you.’

‘Yeah, he’s my best friend, but he doesn’t just care for _me,_ he nearly died twice to protect Mary, and almost threw his life away to keep her safe. Her and our baby.’

‘Wouldn’t you say he does these things for Mary _because_ he cares for you? And that he’s doing these things to keep _you_ happy?’

‘I –, yes, I mean, yes – though he loves Mary. Which is unusual for him, to be honest. He used to hate my partners.’ He laughs, self-consciously.

‘Does Sherlock have a partner? A significant other?’

Mary laughs, ‘Ha! No.’ She continues to chuckle to herself while John speaks over her.

‘Sherlock’s not like that. He doesn’t do that sort of thing.’ John looks down, trying not to let his face show the way this statement makes him feel. ‘The only person he ever seemed to love was decapitated in Pakistan, four years ago.’

‘ _Really?’_ Mary jumps into the conversation. ‘You never told me that.’

_Because I wanted to forget she ever existed,_ John thinks.Aloud he says, ‘Shit, don’t say anything to him, Mary, he doesn’t know. Fuck.’

‘How come _you_ do?’

‘Mycroft. We shouldn’t be talking about this. Classified. Forget I mentioned it. He turns to Dr Farrell, ‘Please don’t write this down, this can’t be on the record.’

She lifts the pen away from the paper. ‘That’s fine, John. We really should be focussing more on you and Mary in these sessions, and less on Sherlock Holmes.’

Mary snorts, ‘Wouldn’t that be novel’, and John has to dig his nails into the palms of his hands to keep himself from responding.

**

Eleven days after Sherlock’s aborted exile and he’s breathing in the less than fresh air of Central London, as he steps out of Mycroft’s home on Hamilton Terrace. Having been on house arrest in the ridiculously ostentatious property, he’s amused himself by sleeping in whichever of the eight bedrooms takes his fancy on that particular day, knowing the mess will give his fastidious brother an apoplexy. Sherlock is convinced that six of the bedrooms have _never_ been slept in. Mycroft doesn’t have friends, certainly none close enough to invite to his home. Despite how much he enjoys annoying his brother, Sherlock is glad for the opportunity to leave, even if it is just to be sequestered in a subterranean office at Vauxhall Cross.

Mycroft has been meeting with Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on numerous occasions during this time, to discuss Magnussen, Sherlock’s exile and the re-emergence of Moriarty, but this is the first time the detective has been allowed in on the discussions himself.

Clad in his trademark black suit and white faintly pinstriped shirt, he’s reclined in a soft leather chair in the centre of the room, a plate of quickly depleting gingernuts at his side, facing Lady Smallwood who is seated alone behind a large glass desk. Mycroft is standing between him and the door as though afraid he might bolt. As if that fat tub of lard could stop him if he made a run for it. Why must the man insist on wearing those three piece suits when the waistcoat makes him look grossly overweight. Maybe it holds everything in with an inbuilt girdle. Sherlock chokes on a biscuit at the image that thought provides, and Mycroft glares at him, reading his thoughts in a single glance, and rolling his eyes while subtly pulling in his stomach and standing taller.

‘Mr Holmes. Sherlock. You’re back in this country to bring down Moriarty, as you clearly failed to do so last time. Whether you _stay_ here, depends entirely on the successful resolution of this case.’

‘For God’s sake, he’s _dead!_ Shot himself in the face, right in front of me. Nobody can fake that!’ Sherlock shouts at the infuriating bureaucrat. Does she have no idea what he went through to destroy that man’s network? If this is anyone’s fault, it’s not his. ‘I know Irene Adler managed to fool you twice, but surely you must have checked Jim’s body for a pulse? No squash balls?’

‘ _Twice?’_ Mycroft asks, a split second of confusion darkening his features. ‘What do you mean, _twice?’_

Sherlock smirks. Mycroft exhales loudly and raises his eyes to the ceiling, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to ward off the inevitable migraine. Lady Smallwood starts to say something but Sherlock cuts her off; he’s not going to put the British Government on Irene’s trail again.

‘Mycroft, I spent two years travelling the globe, alone, shutting down Moriarty’s network, based on _your_ intelligence. You said it was over after Serbia. Did you lie? Or was your intelligence faulty?’

‘It wasn’t.’

‘Then this has nothing to do with them. Anyone could have made that video. It could have been _you._ ’

‘ _Me?’_

‘Well, it got me out of my exile, didn’t it.’

‘Why would I have wanted to get you _out_ of it?’ he asks with a sneer. ‘You know, considering the possibility of this being Moriarty is the only reason you aren’t in Eastern Europe at this very moment, you may want to take the idea more seriously.’

‘If this isn’t him – and it isn’t – then you aren’t going to get an outcome you are happy with. You can’t lock up a dead man. I’ll waste my time on this case, if that’s what you want, but _I_ want a guarantee that the Magnussen charge will be dropped.’

‘It’s not that simple, Mr Holmes. Sherlock, his murder was caught on camera and witnessed by a dozen secret service agents.’

‘You’re MI6. I’m sure you can sort something out. If I solve this case, no, if I even _work_ this case, you agree to drop the charges. Or you can put me back on that plane now.’ He’s bluffing, of course. He would rather chase his tail with a boring hacking case than be sent on a suicide mission, but he really _doesn’t_ want this hanging over him. Mycroft will see straight through him, but maybe Lady Smallwood won’t.

There’s a battle of wills between them as they lock eyes, waiting to see who will back down first. It will never be Sherlock. Elizabeth’s eyes flick once to Mycroft’s, then back to see Sherlock smirking. He knows he’s won. ‘Alright, I’ll see what I can do.’ She writes something down on a notepad on her desk before carefully recapping the pen and taking a deep breath. ‘So, Mr Holmes. What is your next move?’

‘I’m going to wait.’

‘Wait?’

‘Is it _really_ necessary to repeat me? Yes, I’ll wait. If it’s him, he’ll come to me. If it’s his people, they’ll come to me. Whoever else it may be will most probably come for me, too. I need to be back at Baker Street for that to -’

The ringing of Sherlock’s phone interrupts them, earning him another angry glare from Mycroft. The device had been vibrating with messages all morning, though he had ignored them as he prepared his case for this meeting. Fighting for his continued existence seemed more important, but now he’s won that round, he pulls it out to see who’s calling, hoping it’s John. Despite protocol dictating that no mobile phones be brought into these top secret meetings, searching Mycroft Holmes’ brother is not a job anybody wants to have. Thankfully for him. He answers when he sees who it is.

‘Lestrade?’

‘Sherlock! At long last. You’ve been pestering me every hour for the last week for cases you could solve from home, which I know better than to question, then today you ignore all my texts. Where the hell have you been?’

‘Not your concern. Do you have a case, or not?’

‘Yeah. Not sure it’ll be that interesting for you though, but it’s better than nothing, right?’ When Sherlock doesn’t respond, he continues. ‘Last night there was a shooting in Southwark. A taxi driver having a smoke against his cab, took a bullet to the left shoulder.’

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, ignoring the people in the room while he takes note of the address Lestrade gives him. He gets up, throwing his coat on and tying his scarf around his neck, filling his pockets with the remainder of the biscuits.

Mycroft steps in front of him as he heads for the door, and he eventually realises that the people in the room haven’t finished with him. He groans dramatically, refusing to look at his brother and looking at the woman who holds his fate in her hands.

‘Can I go?’


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock jumps out of the cab on the corner of Porlock Street, just before the line of police cars, Belstaff flowing out behind him like a cape. He pushes past the press already gathered, and ignores the police officers doing a bad job of guarding the scene, as he ducks under the tape. It feels indescribably good to be out on a case again, even if it does only rank at a four (he’s being generous, it’s probably only a two).

‘Sherlock,’ Lestrade calls, ushering him over to where the victim is slumped against the side of a black cab. He nods at the forensic techs, silently asking for room to let Sherlock work. They are used to him by now, but that doesn’t stop the looks of disdain, especially from Anderson who opens his mouth to retort but wisely stops himself.

The snow has begun to thaw, leaving an icy sludge on the ground beneath their feet, soaking into the clothes of the man that can no longer feel their chill. Sherlock crouches beside the body, mindful of the pool of blood beneath him, more concerned for his shoes than the forensics, yet paying no care to the damp absorbed into the bottom of his coat where it sweeps the pavement.

His eyes scan the body, taking in everything except the wound itself. The victim is white, around forty: neat greying facial hair, and a black woollen hat pulled down over what Sherlock deduces is a bald head. A checked shirt, that John would likely covet, is open at the neck, despite the icy wind, and his jacket is open. Not unlike his own, Sherlock thinks, but at least he’s wearing a scarf against the bitter chill. There’s a cheap chain with a skull and crossbones at the end, resting just below his collar bone. Ill-fitting denim jeans and black work books finish off the ensemble. Three rings adorn his hands, one of which is his tarnished titanium wedding band (happily married, ten-to-fifteen years), and there’s a relatively expensive Breitling on his left wrist. Not a robbery, then, and unlikely to be the wife. Probably drugs related. Certainly nothing of interest to Sherlock, despite the man’s profession and the position of the shot.

He stands again, stepping back to give the scene back to the forensic team. ‘This may be the dullest case you’ve ever called me in on, Giles.’

Greg laughs at the butchering of his moniker, perfectly aware that Sherlock knows his real name, and still none the wiser as to why he refuses to use it. ‘Normally I’d agree with you, but white blokes don’t often get shot in white middle-class neighbourhoods. Almost never, in fact. There’s no drugs on him, or in the car, and his takings are still there. Besides, a cab driver shot in the shoulder… thought that might interest you, for personal reasons.’ He lowers his voice and leans closer to Sherlock, ‘I hope I don’t have to bring John in for this one.’

Sherlock is somewhat touched that Lestrade recognised the parallel, and looks up at him in surprise as he becomes aware that Greg must have known all along that it was John that shot Jeff Hope. Greg smiles broadly before coughing and looking away, the moment suddenly becoming awkward as he realises he’s just admitted, as a police officer, to letting a man get away with murder. Sherlock busies himself with texting John to request his presence at Baker Street later; he’s working this afternoon, and Sherlock has learnt not to demand he leaves. He needs that job with a baby on the way, though Sherlock is quite sure that Mary must have access to a significant amount of money from her earlier work, and John has never taken money out of the joint account they accumulated from their private cases. John will like this little reminder of their first case together, and if Sherlock has already solved it by then, well, John doesn’t have to know that.

‘Bullet is still in the shoulder, that’s why there’s less blood than you’d expect. We’ll have to wait until after the autopsy to get the bullet to ballistics. Not a long range shot like your cabbie, but not point blank either. Small calibre handgun, according to Anderson.’

‘What does _he_ know about guns?’ Sherlock snorts.

‘He’s seen a fair few shooting victims, Sherlock, give him credit.’ Hell would freeze over before Sherlock gave Anderson credit for _anything_ , except being a moron.

Sherlock’s first case with John, “A Study in Pink”, was over five years ago, and this murder, despite the similarities, can be no more than mere coincidence. Sherlock knows that. So why does he hear Mycroft’s voice in the back of his head: _‘The universe is rarely so lazy, Brother Mine.’_ Sherlock’s nose crinkles in disgust as it does every time he hears his brother’s voice, real or imagined.

‘Lestrade, get Molly to do the autopsy this afternoon. I’ll head over to Barts now.’ He desperately needed something to do, and if that meant seeing patterns where there weren’t any, then so be it. At the very least, it should be enough to spark John’s interest and give him an excuse to come to Baker Street.

‘Sherlock, you know it doesn’t work like that. We can’t just jump the queue because you say so, and Molly isn’t the only pathologist at Barts. She might not even be working!’

‘I’ll call her on my way. She needs to look up the paperwork for Jeff Hope’s autopsy’, he shouts over his shoulder as he walks back to the main road to hail a cab.

Sherlock knows Molly will come in to do this autopsy for him, after hours if necessary. Part of him feels bad for the way he uses her. Not bad enough to stop, though.

**

It’s seven o’clock that evening before John steps off the tube at Baker Street station, having returned home after work to ask if Mary minded him staying the night, and to pack a bag. He knows there’s little chance of them finishing before midnight, and he doesn’t have to work Wednesday’s. There was a time when he would have left work at the first signs of a new case, but he has responsibilities now, he can’t just jump every time Sherlock texts, however much he might want to escape the oppressive silence that is his marriage these days. Despite the comments Mary made in counselling, she was surprisingly supportive of his decision to go, as long as he kept the volume up on his phone, for any baby related emergencies.

Sherlock’s text didn’t say a lot – mysterious as ever – just that there was a case where a cabbie had been shot and he could use his help. Sherlock never really needs anyone’s help: he simply likes having someone to talk to, and the skull just attracts attention. John laughs at the memory as he unlocks the door to 221, using the key he still retains. He knows exactly why Sherlock has called him for this one – as if John could ever forget that first case and the moment he had killed a man for Sherlock Holmes. Besides, they haven’t seen each other since they parted ways on the tarmac almost a fortnight ago, and he likes to think Sherlock has missed him as much as John had missed the mad detective.

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile when he received John’s text, no more than four minutes after he contacted him, and his grin stretched even wider when he read that John planned to come over this evening. He had expected John to be too tired, or busy with Mary, so it’s gratifying to know he’s still a priority to his ex-flatmate. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about John all afternoon, so much so that he was distracted during the autopsy and Molly picked up on it. _Sentiment_.

Ever the doctor, John had asked Sherlock when he had last eaten, and hadn’t been too impressed with the answer, promising to pick up a take-away on the way over if Sherlock let him know what he fancied. He’s spent the last two hours ravenously waiting for the smell of the Indian food to waft up the stairs. He’s not waiting for John specifically, of course, he’s just hungry.

Mrs Hudson is there when John steps in through the doorway, as if she’s been waiting to accost him. It pleases her no end to know that Sherlock will be getting a good meal tonight, so mercifully she doesn’t keep John talking for long, only to ask how Mary is doing and how long they have left until her due date. Escaping as soon as he can, John trots up the seventeen stairs to the flat to find Sherlock clearing the coffee table for the food.

‘John! At last.’ He flicks on the kettle for tea, grabbing the plates, kitchen roll, and one of the Cobra beers that he’d picked up for John.

‘Yeah, sorry about the time. Long day, then I had to go home and pack a bag. Pretty sure I won’t be making it back tonight.’

‘I’m sure you still have things here in your room, it’s not that long ago you were staying here to help me recover.’

‘You’re probably right, but I wouldn’t want to be caught without clean boxers’, he chuckles at Sherlock’s horrified expression. ‘Anyway, I’m here now. So, tell me about the case,’ he says, setting out the various food packages on the table.

‘A cabbie shot in the shoulder while on a smoke break. He’d dropped his last passenger off in Southwark at around ten-thirty yesterday evening – I interviewed her today, nothing amiss. The autopsy showed little of any interest, though I did ask Molly to look into something specifically. Her report came through just before you arrived – it’s printed off in the file. The bullet has gone to ballistics, should have some answers in the morning.’ He starts to fill his plate with the finger food that John has laid out. His doctor knows that he is unlikely to eat a full meal, but the onion bhajis are irresistible.

John is already digging into his plate of lamb bhuna, while riveted to Sherlock’s explanation of the case and eagerly awaiting more information. Sherlock wishes he had something to give him, something that would provide his danger quotient for the week. ‘Obviously a premeditated crime… will probably turn out to be very dull – a spurned lover, or some such tedium. But the gun is interesting. Not that much gun crime in London, and certainly not in a wealthy neighbourhood like that. The occasional burglary, as you might expect when house prices are in the millions… I just thought that you might like the call back to our early days, when everything was… fun. Easy.’

‘God, Sherlock. You know I think that was the best night of my life.’

Sherlock frowns, ‘Surely that should be the night you got married?’

‘Nope. Even with an attempted murder, it wasn’t that exciting.’ He realises the implications in the comment when Sherlock turns pink with embarrassment. ‘Different kind of excitement,’ he coughs, awkwardly. There’s silence for a long moment, neither of them knowing what to say next. This isn’t the kind of thing they talk about.

‘Graham’s always known,’ Sherlock comments quietly, breaking the tension.

‘Who?’

‘Lestrade. He’s always known it was you that shot Jeff Hope; made a joke about it today, if you can believe that.’

John is too surprised to berate Sherlock for getting Greg’s name wrong again. ‘Shit.’

‘Don’t worry, if he wanted to do anything about it he would have done it long before now. I’m afraid it may have been me that gave the game away. Looking back, it was probably quite clear when I stopped in the middle of deducing the shooter to come and talk to you, telling Lestrade to ignore everything I’d said’, he grimaces at how obvious he must have been. Of course Lestrade worked it out, he _is_ a detective, of sorts. ‘I think we can safely say this isn’t the same shooter, yet the coincidences are entirely too… coincidental.’ He cringes at his own clumsy language, the top of his nose wrinkling.

‘And you don’t believe in coincidences,’ John responds, earning a smile from Sherlock. ‘Hang on, are you even allowed to work other cases? Should you be totally focussed on the… video broadcast.’ John can’t say the bastard’s name.

Sherlock looks unimpressed, rolling his eyes.

‘No, really. I don’t want you suddenly taken away again because you violated the terms of your… stay of execution.’

‘John, Moriarty is dead. Someone was most probably playing an, admittedly fortuitously timed, prank. I’m feigning as much interest as I can until _Elizabeth_ has dealt with the Magnussen issue.’

‘Dealt with it?’

‘I don’t know how – frankly I don’t care – but she’s said the charges will be dropped if I work this case. Nobody said I can’t multitask – I’m a genius, after all.’ He smiles, wickedly, taking a bite of his samosa, following it up with some with a sip of his tea. He hates eating while on a case, and John has never failed to find the right things to temp him with.

Besides, they aren’t exactly working the case right now. The folder stays closed on the table, with Molly’s autopsy report unread inside. Sherlock isn’t even tempted to pick it up, simply enjoying John’s company and reminiscing over their past cases. John can’t remember the last time he had an evening as relaxed as this, and with a baby on the way it will probably be a while before he gets another one.

‘I’ve really missed this, you know? A good curry, working a case, Mrs Hudson cooing over us, the mess, the fear of what’s in the fridge…’

‘I miss it too. Obviously not the fridge, or the mess, or Mrs Hudson, but… cases aren’t as much fun when you’re not here.’ He says this quietly, as if he doesn’t want John to really hear it.

But he does hear it, and he can’t deny how much that little confession means to him. He takes another gulp of his beer. ‘What you just said? That was… good.’

Sherlock hides his smile behind his tea cup.

‘Christ, I’m exhausted,’ John yawns. ‘Any chance we can pick up the case tomorrow? I don’t think I’d be much use to you right now.’

‘Of course, John. Your bed is made up. I’ll just look over Molly’s report, then I’ll head to bed myself.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. I’m looking forward to being on my own mattress again.’

John squeezes his shoulder lightly as he takes himself up to his old room. Sherlock smiles, content to have his best friend back in the flat again. If only he could make him stay.

**

When a bleary-eyed John descends the stairs to the main flat, at half past ten the next morning, his initial assumption is that Sherlock hasn’t moved from where he left him last night: still seated on the sofa, with the remnants of their dinner stacked in their pots onto the floor, the table now holding the case file, photographs, and Sherlock’s feet. On closer inspection (and John does like to inspect him closely), his white shirt is marginally different to the one he wore yesterday – a plain, crisp white, minus the pinstripe.

‘Morning! I see you did get some sleep.’

‘Hmm? How did you…?’ Sherlock had been expecting John to berate him for not having gone to bed as promised, yet his doctor has surprised him again. He seems to have seen _and_ observed, for once. ‘Ah, yes, the shirt, of course. I’ll have you know I managed over four hours, thank you.’

‘I bet you haven’t made tea though.’

Sherlock smirks. ‘No, I thought I better leave that to you.’

John smiles to himself as he goes through the familiar steps of preparing the tea, strangely content to be back in 221B, even if he is slightly worried about opening the fridge. He tries not to look too closely, and just thanks his lucky stars that there’s still milk.

It’s not long before they are seated side by side again, with John picking at the leftover Indian food, and Sherlock sticking blue-tac to the back of various photographs and reports, ready to form his case wall.

‘Lestrade has identified the victim: Steven Horningsea, forty-two, married, father of three, been a London cab driver for twenty years. No criminal record. I read over Molly’s report last night. Autopsy showed no signs of any drug use, past or present. I also asked her to pull out the paperwork for the autopsy of Jeff Hope. Turns out she conducted that one, too.’ He pauses before imparting the most interesting information, ‘John, this isn’t just a similar shot, it’s _identical.’_

‘What?! How is that possible? I shot from a different building, through a bloody pane of glass! This shot was, what? Fifty yards?’

‘More or less. Yet both shots shattered the coracoid process, tearing through the coracoacromial ligament, and nicking the axillary artery.’

‘Christ, that’s…’ he trails off, looking at the photographs Sherlock had printed out from both shootings, and the detailed diagrams of the shoulder he had included. The highlighted sections on the diagrams show that the shots really were as close to identical as you could possibly get with two different victims, two different shooters, and two different guns.

‘Are we saying this is somehow linked?’ John asks, patiently waiting for Sherlock to answer, but when he speaks again, he ignores the question.

‘The ballistics report came in just before you got up. The round was a .380ACP from a Walther PPK, fitted with a silencer.’

‘Smaller than my Sig, though not by much. Pretty similar gun, really. The PPK is a compact version of the standard PP, made for concealed carrying. Never fired one myself, mind.’

‘Though I have never fired one either, I do believe I have some experience with that particular weapon,’ Sherlock states, rubbing the fingers of his right hand over the scar on his chest. ‘I was also lucky that the bullet stayed in my body, and even more fortunate that you were there.’

John’s eyes widen as he understands what Sherlock is implying. He swallows, feeling like he can’t get enough air, unable to take his eyes off Sherlock’s chest, despite him being covered with a shirt. His left hand starts to flex on his leg in an effort to keep himself calm. Sherlock recognises the beginning of a panic attack, and mentally kicks himself for not keeping his mouth shut.

‘John? _John?_ Listen to me. Why don’t you take a shower and get dressed while I clear up the food and get these stuck up on the wall. Then we can go over everything properly. Yes? I’ll even make another pot of tea.’

John is brought out of his head by the affection in Sherlock’s voice, and knows his distress was clear for the detective to read. He feels uncomfortable and exposed, and will happily escape to the bathroom for an hour to clear his head.

‘You’re gonna clear up?’ he says when his breathing has returned to normal, smiling and attempting to lighten the mood. ‘That’ll be the day.’

Sherlock chuckles to himself as John heads into the bathroom, pleased he managed to make John laugh again. Having been used to John’s habits when they lived together, he knows he’ll be in the shower for around forty-seven minutes, assuming he doesn’t masturbate (which Sherlock is decidedly _not_ thinking about), giving Sherlock plenty of time to clear away the dinner things, set up the case wall, talk to Lestrade, and run down to Speedy’s for some decent coffee.

John leaves the shower, in a far too small towel, after forty-six minutes, just as Sherlock is pouring the coffee into their own mugs. It’s a strange quirk that always amuses John. ‘Wow, a tidy table _and_ coffee. What have I done to deserve this?’

‘It’s more a case of what _will_ you do.’ He blushes as he realises how that sounds. ‘Hurry up and get dressed.’

Once dressed, and with his hair styled, John stands beside Sherlock again, facing the case wall. Sherlock points out one badly lit photograph, depicting a murky street corner. There are lamps on the main street, but down the side of the building, opposite where the cab was parked, there are deep dark shadows.

‘I’ve just spoken to Lestrade. He says based on the distance the bullet was fired from, they think the shooter was standing in the shadows at the corner of the building here, which means he was set up in advance, he knew that the victim – or at the very least _a_ cab driver – would be taking a break there, and the approximate time that it would happen. I interviewed his last passenger and there was nothing to indicate she was being untruthful, but she _did_ say that he complained about taking a fare south of the river after nine in the evening, so the shooter can’t have planned for that particular driver, they must instead have known something about the plans of the last passenger. Maybe a friend, maybe simply hacked their emails, I don’t know. The taxi dropped her off around ten fifteen. Now, you can’t hang around on a street corner with a gun for long, especially in a neighbourhood like that. Balance of probability says the shooter is white: he must have been seen by some people, it wasn’t that late, but nobody paid attention, nobody _observed,_ because he looked like he belonged there. People don’t like to think they’re racists, but a black man would have been noticed.’

‘Trained shooter?’

‘Not necessarily, it’s an easy enough shot. But why the left shoulder rather than a head shot – almost a guaranteed death, or a chest shot – a larger centre of mass?’

‘Unless they were a bad shot and they were aiming for his chest?’

‘Would a bad shot choose a gun as a way of dispatching their victim?’

‘So what, you think someone wanted to kill somebody and is trying to cover up their motive by making it look like the… vigilante that killed Jeff Hope five years ago?’

‘Maybe.’

‘But who would have known about him and the exact placement of the shot that killed him? The officers on the scene? _Molly_?’

‘Any number of people could have found out the information if they wanted to. But why would they be looking? It doesn’t make any sense!’ Sherlock throws himself down on the sofa, but without his dressing gown the move is far less dramatic than he’d hoped.

‘Come on, get out your laptop. Let’s see what we can dig up on the victim. You know you’re far better at this than the Yard.’

Never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t respond to flattery.


	3. Chapter 3

John had returned home on Wednesday evening after a long day of digging into the background of their shooting victim and his last passenger, Miriam Evans. After failing to find anything of significance, Sherlock had all but shelved the case, as he had little to go on, but by Saturday he was bored enough to follow up with Lestrade, who had interviewed the wife and eldest daughter of Steven Horningsea.

‘ _His wife said she’d never seen the skull and crossbones neck chain before. Claims he didn’t own anything like it.’_

‘ _That she knew of.’_

‘ _Forensics seem to agree with her. There’s no fingerprints at all, not even on the clasp; he can’t possibly have put it on himself. They also found blood on the back of the charm but not the front.’_

‘ _It was put on after he was shot.’_

It may be a lead, but it still doesn’t provide Sherlock with anything to investigate that the police aren’t already doing, so he sets it aside, promptly returning to his previous state of monotonous existence. Mrs Hudson’s wall is saved by a matter of minutes, thanks to a well timed text from John enquiring as to the detective’s plans for tomorrow afternoon. He wants to visit to “ _spend some time with his best friend before the baby is born”._

John never asks in advance of a visit: Sherlock suspects an ulterior motive.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he begins tidying the flat, stacking old piles of sheet music and magazines, sweeping the floor, and even throwing away the, somewhat putrid, kidney experiment. He’ll need to disinfect the fridge.

Mrs Hudson sees him take out a bin bag and nearly has a heart attack – in all the years he’s lived in 221B, she has never seen him do that.

‘There better not be body parts in those bags, young man.’

‘Well I can’t keep them in the fridge’, he says as he heaves the bags into the bin outside the back door, ‘John is coming to visit tomorrow. We rarely get to spend time together without a case these days, I want to make the flat look… welcoming. We could do with a nice warm meal, one of those stew things would be perfect. Oh, and do you have any milk?’

He only just makes it back to the stairs before she hits him.

  
  
  


When John arrives on Sunday, it’s already early evening and the smell of Mrs Hudson’s cooking is filling the hallway.

‘Please tell me she’s cooking for us’, John says in lieu of a greeting.

‘Of course she is. You know she’s always trying to fatten me up’, Sherlock responds, taking in John’s haggard appearance; _exhausted, had a row with Mary last night, slept on the sofa._

‘Two meals in the course of a week is unlikely to put any fat on you, especially with all the running around you do. Speaking of which, any joy on the case?’

‘Lestrade’s team of incompetents didn’t find any more information regarding the victim’s personal life than we did. However, his wife says the chain wasn’t his, and it appears to have been put on after death. Implication being that the killer brought it with them.’

‘Why would they do that? Killers usually _take_ trophies, not leave them.’

‘No idea. I’ll need to interview his friends and family myself – can’t rely on the Yard to know what’s relevant.’

There’s a quiet knock on the door, and Mrs Hudson pokes her head in. ‘John, dear, could you help me with these dishes?’ she asks. She’s carrying a large cooking pot with a plate of home-made bread balanced on the top. She doesn’t speak to Sherlock as she enters the flat, simply shoots him a somewhat exasperated, yet fond, look that John can’t decipher.

After declining John’s invitation to eat with them, their landlady returns to her flat, leaving John to dish up the delicious smelling lamb stew into large bowls, tearing off chunks of the bread for their side plates. He finds a reasonably good Shiraz in the bottom cupboard, behind some beakers, (how long has that been there?) and he pours them a glass each, before sitting down at the table and waiting for Sherlock to join him.

Sherlock can’t work out what’s going on with John, but he’s acting most strange. First the polite request to visit, and now the quiet insistence that not only will Sherlock eat, he will do it at the kitchen table! They _never_ use the kitchen table for food.

Giving in to his curiosity, Sherlock sits at the table, watching John drain his first glass of wine, and pour a second, before he addresses the issue on his mind.

‘I need to ask you something, mate, and I think it’s the single most important thing I’ll ever ask of you, so I need you to take it seriously.’

Sherlock gives an almost coy smile, ‘While I’m flattered by your interest, you are already married, John.’

John huffs out a laugh, the nerves leaving his body along with it. ‘No, you git, I’m not proposing! I… I’d like you to be my daughter’s godfather.’

Sherlock blinks rapidly, as though he’s trying to clear something from his eyes, and his brain goes offline. He can feel a bolt of – _something –_ straight through his heart, and he thinks he’s almost… touched.

‘Sherlock?’ John asks. ‘You’re doing the blinky thing again.’ He gently nudges his friend’s shoulder, ‘Don’t worry, there won’t be any actual religion involved, I promise.’ The blinking begins to slow. John takes a few spoonfuls of his stew before trying again. ‘Sherlock?’

‘I… yes. I mean, you… want me to…’

‘Of course I do, you’re my best friend, there’s nobody I would rather have looking out for my little girl. Though you’ll have to make the flat a bit more baby proof before I bring her round.’

‘You’d really want to bring her here?’ he asks, the surprise evident in his voice.

‘I want her to love this flat as much as I do. It’s still home to me.’ John smiles, stealing a bit of the untouched bread on Sherlock’s plate. Sherlock looks put out, hurrying to eat it before John can steal more.

‘You know, I _am_ capable of tidying up a bit – I did yesterday! Didn’t you notice?’

‘I did actually, I assumed it was Mrs H’, he laughs. ‘Still, I’m not sure hazardous chemicals in the cupboard, and body parts in the fridge, make a safe environment for a baby. Maybe you can eventually get that separate fridge I’ve always nagged you about!’

‘John, she’s not even been born yet, let alone opening cupboards. Let me know when she starts crawling and I’ll buy a padlock.’

‘Deal.’ John clinks their wine glasses together.

  
  
  


Once they are finished with their meal, John subjects Sherlock to the first _Mission Impossible_ film, which Sherlock finds so dull he falls asleep twenty minutes in. _Maybe I should make him watch a Tom Cruise movie every night_ , John thinks. _Might just cure his insomnia._

The annoying chirp of John’s mobile, rouses them both just after one am; John realising that he too had fallen asleep, with his head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. He moves away quickly, grabbing his mobile from the coffee table.

‘Shit, it’s Mary. I’ve got to go.’ He drags himself from the sofa, ruffling his hair and trying to flatten it down again. ‘I need to be at work at nine’, he groans, taking his coat off the back of the door and trying to fight his sleep-heavy arms into it. He has one foot out of the door when Sherlock’s phone rings, and he stops, waiting for Sherlock to listen to the caller and relay the details.

‘Lestrade. Another shooting, possibly related to our cabbie. The Jade Palace Gallery on New Bond Street.’ He grabs his Belstaff and scarf, elegantly flipping his coat on like it’s a cloak. _No clumsy arms there,_ John thinks.

‘Coming?’

‘Ugh. I really shouldn’t.’ He looks down at his phone, then back up at Sherlock, who uncharacteristically hasn’t rushed off without him. ‘Shit. Okay, come on. I’ll text Mary on the way.’

**

‘Victim is the owner of the gallery, a thirty year-old woman named Mei Li Wang; British born of Chinese heritage. She sells original Chinese paintings and antique ceramics. Lot of money’s worth of goods in here.’

‘Burglary?’ John enquires.

‘Doesn’t look like it. Alarm goes off at ten-forty-six pm. Security company, Romec, call Ms Wang to check it out. She arrives and puts her code into the panel at eleven-thirteen. Romec then call the gallery to confirm all is well, and she doesn’t answer. That’s when they called us. Officers arrived at eleven-thirty-nine to find the door open. Her car is the Audi out front, her handbag still on the seat. Nothing appears stolen from here, but a member of staff will carry out an inventory once we’ve cleared the scene. The killer can’t have been in here long. If someone wanted to rob the place, they would have forced her to answer the phone and give her pass phrase, and _then_ killed her. Would have given them all the time they needed.’

Sherlock nods as he ruminates over the details, impressed by Lestrade’s deductions. ‘High value institutions usually have a duress code to give to the alarm company in situations such as this. Maybe her killer knew that.’

‘Maybe. She’s all yours, by the way. We’ve finished with preliminary forensics, but I knew you’d want to see the body before they turn her over.’

Sherlock looks down at the body at his feet for the first time. ‘The shooter didn’t have to break in, he simply had to smash a window and wait for her to arrive to respond to the alarm.’ The detective begins his usual pace around the body, crouching low then standing quickly, taking a step forward then doing the same again, almost like an exercise routine for his leg muscles. When he completes a lap he pauses at the victim’s head, taking a look at the wound, before starting the process again. His eyes flick up and down her body, reading all of the details at lightning speed: _Five feet two inches, long black hair piled on her head in a messy bun. Now caked in blood and brain matter. A padded parka covering her satin pyjamas, no make-up on the side of her face that he can see, and there’s a slight pillow crease on her cheek. Snow boots on her feet, and in her right hand a large bunch of keys, containing both a car key and standard domestic back and front door keys, along with the security lock and safe keys for the gallery. A small keyring with a photo of a dog._

‘The shooter pushed her in, shot her, and left almost immediately. She’s a message to someone, nothing more. If it was racially motivated, and they went to the trouble to get inside the gallery, they would have destroyed the art. If she owed money there would be a robbery, but there’s an impressive engagement ring on her finger, and you said her handbag is still in the car. If it was personal she would have been stabbed, beaten, or shot and left to suffer and bleed out. This killer wanted her dead but didn’t need to torture her. An execution. I doubt you’ll find anything in her private life to explain this. It was nothing to do with her, she just… fulfilled a criteria.’

John visibly reacts to Sherlock’s cold, emotionless voice. He’ll never get used to how the detective keeps himself so detached.

‘What criteria?’ Lestrade asks.

‘Don’t know yet. Do we know it’s definitely linked to the other one?’

‘No, ballistics will have to compare the bullets after the autopsy, but it appears to be a small calibre handgun.’

‘Check the body for anything that doesn’t belong to her – see if her family can account for all of the keys’, Sherlock orders as he strides out of the door and to the main road to hail a cab. He has everything he needs from the scene, so they follow the body to the morgue, Molly having agreed to come in early to conduct the autopsy and retrieve the bullet for analysis.

John reaches his side as a cab pulls to the kerb. ‘Any theories?’

‘One or two’, Sherlock replied cryptically. John doesn’t seem to have linked this to the Black Lotus case, and Sherlock doesn’t want to say anything until he’s sure. No sense worrying John prematurely.

  
  
  


The sun is rising by the time John remembers to text Mary. He also messages his boss, asking for the day off as he has a terrible sickness bug. He’s almost falling asleep in the morgue, sitting on one of the tall stools at the counter. Sherlock hovers over Molly’s shoulder, watching her take the relevant samples of body fluids, fibres, and fingerprints for analysis, along with blood for toxicology. Sherlock expects them to be about as fruitful as the samples taken from Mr Horningsea. He’s here to see the bullet.

As soon as Molly has retrieved it, Sherlock takes it to the counter to visually compare the striations to the bullet taken from the cab driver’s shoulder. They’re a match. It will be a while before they get the official report from ballistics, but the visual comparison is enough for Sherlock.

They return to Baker Street just before five am, hopefully with Lestrade’s report and Anderson’s terrible, out of focus, photos waiting in his inbox for him to look over this morning. John is half-asleep and can barely put one foot in front of the other. He lies down on the sofa, refusing to climb another set of stairs, and by the time Sherlock brings him a cup of tea, he’s fast asleep. Sherlock covers him with a blanket and sits on the floor beside him, laptop in hand.

**

The gentle murmur of Mrs Hudson’s voice, and the overpowering scent of _Casbah Nights,_ pull John from his slumber just as the midday sun is breaking through the gaps in the closed living room curtains. Cracking open one eye, he pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and focuses his sight on the tea cup inches away from his face.

His need for tea outweighing his need for sleep, he releases a hand from under the blanket to take the cup, smiling at his landlady (not housekeeper). ‘Ta, Mrs H.’

‘You’re welcome, dear. I’ve reheated the stew for you to have for lunch.’

‘You are a _literal_ saint, Mrs Hudson. What would we do without you?’

‘Oh bless you, dear. I’m certainly no saint’, she says with a wink, and Sherlock’s groan can be heard from the kitchen. ‘I better leave you two to work’, she whispers to John, leaving the room just as Sherlock enters from the kitchen, case files under one arm. He’s barefoot now, with his blue dressing gown casually thrown on over the clothes he was wearing earlier.

John sits himself up, yawning. ‘What did I miss?’

‘Twelve hours of the day’, Sherlock quips.

‘Ha ha, smart arse.’

‘The bullet has been confirmed as matching that taken from Mr Horningsea’s shoulder.’

‘As you said it would’, he says as he heads into the kitchen to help himself to some of the stew for lunch. ‘Do you want some of this’, he calls.

‘Not hungry.’

‘If I put some of the bread and dumplings on the table next to you, will you eat it?’

‘Hmm, probably.’

John smiles at the idiot. He’s always been able to get Sherlock to eat, just by strategically placing food around the case notes. Sherlock will reach for it without even realising, and he’s always had a weakness for Mrs Hudson’s cooking. He puts a plate down on the coffee table next to the stack of case files, before taking his own to his chair, rolling his eyes at Sherlock who is now standing on the vacated sofa.

Sherlock is pinning up scribbled notes onto the wallpaper, where photographs of the latest victim have joined the first, including a gruesome close up of the wounds, and the retrieved bullets. No wonder they don’t get many visitors.

‘There was something interesting from Lestrade that confirms what I was already thinking: Mei Li had another job. She worked in the T.T. Tsui Gallery at the V&A, specifically with Chinese teapots.’

Sherlock waits for the information to sink it; John has only been awake for twenty minutes, he can be forgiven for being a little slow. He spots the moment it dawns on his blogger.

‘Soo Lin Yao!’

Sherlock smiles, passing over the file in his hand – it’s the Black Lotus case. ‘Knew you’d get there eventually.’

‘Git, you knew? Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I _have_ only just found out about the tea pots’, he responds, now adding to the case wall the relevant entries from John’s blog, along with the comments. ‘I had a suspicion, but I needed to see if someone else would pick up on the connection… to be sure I wasn’t seeing patterns where there weren’t any. I’ve often been accused of wanting things to be too clever.’

‘I don’t think you’re seeing things’, John replies, his appetite swiftly reduced as a nervous/exhilarated flutter starts in the pit of his stomach. ‘Shit, these murders really are about our cases. It must be a follower of the blog!’

‘Or a police officer, lab technician, news reporter… Any number of people could have the details of these cases. But yes, it would appear we have a fan’, Sherlock responds, absentmindedly taking a bite of the bread John had left for him.

John remembers the last time Sherlock had a “fan”, and he shivers hard enough for Sherlock to notice. Of course, the detective knows exactly who John had been thinking of; he has an expression on his face that Sherlock has only ever seen in relation to Moriarty.

‘Sherlock, if this is personal, if we’re in danger, then I need to be at home with Mary. I know it’s my job to have your back, but I can’t leave her alone again, not when she could go into labour at any time.’

‘Yes, of course’, Sherlock answers politely, ignoring the nausea he feels at the mention of Mary and their child. ‘Do you still have any of your old notes from these cases?’

‘Yeah, I’ve got all my old notebooks. I’ll dig them out tonight.’

‘Bring them by tomorrow and help me go through these files?’ He asks, hopefully.

‘Can’t. We’ve got, um… an appointment in the morning, then I’m working the afternoon shift. I’ll be on the end of the phone if you need to run anything by me. _Do not_ go out on your own, you hear me? Take Lestrade if you must. Promise me?’

Sherlock sighs, but finds he cannot argue, ‘Fine. Yes, I promise. I’m going to sit here reading through these files all day, by myself because you refuse to stay, and compare them for any repeated names, places, or officers. Tedious but perfectly safe, Captain.’

‘Good. And make sure you get some sleep tonight, too. You look worse than I do.’

‘Any more demands, John? I thought you had a wife to get home to?’

‘Oh shut up, you git, I’m going. You know, despite the fact that you’re a complete arse, it’s been good to be here with you again, working a case.’

‘Yes, it’s been good to have you here’, Sherlock smiles wistfully. ‘Goodbye, John.’

**

Sherlock stands at the window, watching as John sets off in the direction of Baker Street tube station. It had begun snowing again last night and the ground is now covered in a fine layer, giving the street a wintery picture postcard quality.

_That may have been the last time I spent with John Watson before the baby comes._

The thought hits Sherlock hard as he realises that nothing will ever be the same. In truth, it hadn’t been the same since he returned home from Serbia to find John living with Mary, but he had always hoped…

He is in equal parts excited for, and dreading, the arrival of the child. Okay, maybe not equal parts, more like a twenty-eighty split. The opportunities for scientific study are vast, yet he knows that her very existence will widen the distance (physical, emotional, geographical) between him and John. The saddest part is, on the rare occasions they are together, they seem to be as close as they ever were. With John juggling fatherhood, marriage, and a job at the surgery, those occasions will be even fewer and further between.

Sherlock resolves to pay John for his time helping on cases and running the blog – it will reduce the financial burden on him and may lead him to reducing his hours at the surgery, therefore being available to Sherlock more. He’s surprised he hadn’t thought of it before.

Before John, Sherlock would have been happy to be left alone, able to work on his experiments in peace. Alone did not equate to lonely. But _since_ John… well. Things are different now, and he finds the isolation intolerable.

Making a conscious effort to put his mind back on the case, Sherlock sends messages to Lestrade and Dimmock, requesting a list of personnel associated with both the “Study in Pink” case, and the Black Lotus, along with anything else that wasn’t in the files. After staring for an interminable length of time at the documents he had collated while John had slept that morning, he can feel the beginnings of a headache encroaching. Giving in to the (frankly unreasonable) demands of his transport, he takes a break from his visual analysis of the files, stretching out on the sofa and slipping into his mind palace instead.

It isn’t long before he is overcome by both a physical and emotional exhaustion, and falls into a fitful sleep, dreaming of a heavily pregnant Mary Watson, in her wedding dress, shooting a taxi driver in the shoulder on the snow dappled streets of Marylebone.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite neither of them being convinced it was worth the money, Tuesday finds John and Mary once again seated on Dr Erin Farrell’s cream sofa. There are glasses of water on the table in front of them, condensation misting the glass; the room is always just that little bit too warm. Dr Farrell has coffee on her side table, yet has never offered one to them.

The lady herself is clad in an almost identical suit to the one she wore for their appointment last week. John imagines a walk-in wardrobe with row after row of identical skirts, shirts, and jackets. Or maybe it’s just her Tuesday suit. John is wearing the same jumper, and Mary the same jeans, as last week, so they can’t really judge.

‘Tell me how you feel after last week’s session’, Dr Farrell opens.

‘Hopeful.’ Mary replies instantly.

‘Confused, irritated, angry’, John admits, ‘and… hopeful, yeah’, he tacks on the end. ‘Last night we built the cot together.’ More accurately, John had built the cot whilst Mary sat in the rocking chair giving orders. Not that John is complaining, she _is_ nine months pregnant. Still, finalising their daughter’s room seemed to bring them somewhat closer together; a sentiment that is mirrored in their positions on the sofa; closer to the middle than they were the previous week.

Dr Farrell has attempted to get her patients to open up about the betrayal they alluded to, but has to back away to more positive topics each time they clam up. Positive topics are hard to come by with this pair, though. Mrs Watson appears rather self-centred and shows very little real regard for her husband, and her emotional displays are clearly nothing but good acting. Now that their session is almost up, she is trying to approach the subject again.

‘I want to do all I can for you, but it’s very hard for me to help you when you won’t be entirely honest about the problems that bring you here. You speak of betrayal, yet there are many different types of betrayal, and each has a different severity that is entirely dependent on the people involved. How can I guide you through it if I don’t know what _it_ is?’

There’s a long moment when nobody speaks, until Mary finally relents. ‘I put Sherlock in hospital’, she states, matter-of-factly. Her tone of voice and demeanour say that she is proud of what she had done. ‘I didn’t have a choice, but John doesn’t see it that way.’

‘Of _course_ I don’t see it that way! You shot -.’ He catches himself before he finishes the sentence. Mary cocks her head to the side, staring John down, not at all worried this secret has been revealed.

Dr Farrell, to her credit, doesn’t show her surprise. ‘Ah… I see’, she says after a beat, breaking the awkward silence that followed John’s aborted statement. She makes a few notes in her pad.

‘You understand now why I’m finding this so hard? _He’s_ forgiven her. I know that means I should too, but after everything – after _everything_ he’s done for me – for us – I just…’

‘You _said_ you’d forgive me. You _said_ we’d move on. Yet you still bring it up at every opportunity, with every damn argument.’

To the relief of both parties, their therapist interrupts before another argument takes hold. ‘I’d like to sum up the points we’ve discussed so far’, she states, capping her pen and folding her hands on her lap. ‘Mary, you lied to John about your past, even your name, and you did something terrible to his best friend. When John found out, he was upset and moved out of your home while he made a decision about the marriage. Do you say that is unreasonable behaviour?’

‘Well, no, but I’m pregnant!’ she points out, as if nobody had noticed. ‘Besides, I did what I did for him.’

John snorts, but doesn’t comment.

‘So if you were not pregnant, you think you would have reacted differently to John’s actions?’ Dr Farrell continues.

‘If she wasn’t pregnant I would have divorced her, there and then.’

Mary looks hurt and John is surprised to see such a vulnerable expression on her face. He feels a little guilty, though he does have to wonder if it’s an act. She’s fooled him so many times before, he rarely doesn’t truly believe she has an honest bone in her body. But he has to try… for the baby. Tenderly he takes her hands, ‘I’m sorry. I’m _glad_ I didn’t ask for a divorce. I want to work through this.’

‘Yeah, for the baby’, she sobs, eyes welling up with unshed tears, and John begins to think she’s overplaying it a little.

‘And for us, Mary. Really.’

‘John, no-one is here to judge you for your actions’, Dr Farrell assures, ‘and it’s understandable that you were feeling betrayed, but do you understand why Mary felt abandoned during a very vulnerable time? She was going through her first pregnancy, with all the risks her advanced aged could bring.’

John opens his mouth to declare that completely unfair, only to promptly close it again. She’s right; it wasn’t fair on their child that he didn’t support her mother during the pregnancy. Regardless of his feelings towards Mary at the time, he never would have forgiven himself if something went wrong and he wasn’t there.

‘I’m not saying that anyone is right or wrong, that’s not my job. My job is to guide you to see things from each other’s perspective, to encourage you to understand motivations behind behaviour, and then to help you move past your problems and form a healthy relationship.’ (She wonders how a healthy relationship is possible when one half of the couple shot the other half’s best friend). ‘Again, I don’t know the full details of what occurred, but you said that Sherlock has forgiven Mary and encouraged your reconciliation. Do you trust his opinion?’

‘More than anyone’s, yeah.’

Mary stands up from the sofa, quicker than a woman in her condition should be able to, and simply walks out of the room, not speaking to either of them.

Dr Farrell glances at her watch, somewhat relieved, ‘Our time is up for this week, John. I would encourage you to make another appointment, same time next week? We have quite a bit of work to do.’

‘Don’t I know it’, John mutters. ‘I’ll make an appointment out front. Thanks.’

John makes the appointment with the receptionist, and catches up with Mary on the street outside. She’s walking away, despite the fact that they’ll need a cab to get home. John steps in front of her.

‘What was all that about?’

‘Oh, you know; you _still_ haven’t moved on from what happened to Sherlock, you’ve just announced that you trust him more than me, and I’m fat, hormonal, and miserable.’

‘I said when I forgave you at Christmas that I’m still angry, and it would still come out from time to time. Talking about it brings it all back, that’s all. And you _said_ you were happy for me to work this case with Sherlock, then in there you complain about it!’

‘I didn’t expect you to stay out all night! Anyone else would think you were having an affair’, she shouts, her voice loud enough to attract the attention of others on the street. ‘You’re never around. What happens if I go into labour and you’re not there?’

John deflates, knowing that on this count she is right, ‘I promise I’ll be around more, I really will. The clinic know I want to take my paternity as soon as she’s born, so you’ll have me for a full two weeks. Okay? You’ll be sick of me’, he jokes.

Mary nods, eyes downcast, and when John moves closer to hug her, she leans forward and kisses his cheek, hiding her face against his neck. They stand there, in the middle of the busy street, the perfect picture of the happy expectant couple.

The ringing of John’s phone shatters the illusion.

He steps back to remove it from his pocket, meeting Mary’s gaze when he sees who the caller is.

She rolls her eyes, ‘You’ve got a shift this afternoon, John! You’ll get fired if you miss many more, and then where will we be?’

‘Mary, it’s Sherlock. He _never_ calls.’

John gives her a look that she takes to mean “he’s going to answer the phone and it’s best if they don’t row about it in the middle of the street”, and for once she relents, taking a couple of steps away, raising her arm to hail a cab, not waiting to find out if John is joining her.

John puts the phone to one ear, right hand cupping the other to drown out the sound of the passing traffic. ‘Sherlock. You okay?’

‘There’s been another one.’

**

When Sherlock arrives at the luxurious ground-floor flat in Chelsea, he’s surprised to find Mycroft standing outside. This murder must be high-profile or, more likely, be clearly connected to him and the previous murders, if it’s managed to drag his brother from the comfort of his office chair.

Without a word shared between them, Mycroft leads him through the tastefully decorated flat to the bedroom at the back. Sherlock looks at his brother with a cocked eyebrow when he doesn’t move to follow him in.

‘I’ve seen it once, Sherlock. I have no desire to see it again.’

Sherlock understands as soon as he crosses the threshold, and the sight has him immediately reaching for his mobile to call John.

The bedroom, in contrast to the grey floral design in the rest of the property, has a deep purple feature wall behind the bed; though it is far from the “feature” in the room at present.

On the black four-poster bed lies a young woman, shackled, wearing a fishnet body stocking. Her breasts are bare; a riding crop resting between them. There’s a pair of black patent courts on the floor at the base of the bed, one beneath each post, clearly having fallen off her feet as she struggled. And she _would_ have struggled.

The blood has soaked through the mattress to the floor below. Sherlock had been expecting another shooting when Lestrade had called him in; the last thing he expected to see was the sight before him now. The victim’s severed head rests under her right arm, the eyes wide open. There’s a pair of suspiciously blood free, violin-shaped earrings, hanging from her lobes. Sherlock takes a deep breath in, momentarily dizzy. His mind races with thoughts of Irene Adler, and the fate that had so nearly befallen her. Never before has a crime scene affected him like this.

‘As you’ve probably guessed, she was a dominatrix.’ Lestrade makes Sherlock jump as he speaks, having approached him unheard. He’s not surprised that the D.I. remembers Irene - he’s a red blooded heterosexual male, after all. What _does_ surprise him is that the killer managed to find another dominatrix working in such close proximity to Eaton Square; just how many _are_ there in London?

‘Hell of a thing, isn’t it. Decapitated with a curved blade, like a sabre. Killer was something of a novice though; they didn’t manage to get it through on the first hit, the whole neck is a mess. Would have called you in regardless, due to the sheer fucking brutality, but added to the cabbie shooting, it got me looking at John’s blog. Found the case you worked for Dimmock. Chinese smugglers, and an Asian museum employee shot dead. You should have told me about Soo Lin Yao the other night’, he admonishes.

Sherlock can hear Mycroft conversing with someone just outside the room, and neglects to answer Lestrade as he waits for the inevitable arrival of John Watson.

‘Jesus Christ. I was not expecting that’, his blogger says, stopping dead when he sees the victim. He blows a breath out through his lips harshly, composing himself. He’d seen some awful things during his military career, but nothing quite like this.

Sherlock doesn’t make eye contact with John, not wanting him to see how much this scene has affected him. Instead, he speaks to Lestrade, ‘Yes, they’re all linked to me. To us. The cabbie shot in the shoulder – Jeff Hope; the Chinese woman who worked with teapots – Soo Lin Yao; and the dominatrix – Irene Adler. Whoever this killer is, they know things about our past cases that very few people know. Though they don’t know the truth about _this_ case: Irene isn’t dead.’

John remembers the witness protection lie they told Sherlock, and he meets Mycroft’s gaze before speaking. ‘Actually, Sherlock, she is. She was beheaded by a terror cell in Karachi. I’m sorry… we didn’t -’

Sherlock gives a small humourless laugh. ‘No, she wasn’t. Nearly, but not quite.’

‘How do you – You _saved_ her? You flew to Pakistan, stopped her death, faked it, had a fucking rendezvous in a poxy tent somewhere, then flew home without me even noticing?’

‘Technically -’ Sherlock begins, but Mycroft cuts him off before he can anger John further.

‘Shut up, both of you. This isn’t the time or place for your petty domestics. Who knew this was how she – how she _supposedly_ died? Sherlock, John and I believed it until that comment you made at the meeting on Tuesday.’ John raises an eyebrow at Mycroft, expectantly, and he obliges, ‘Something about Irene having fooled me twice.’

‘So when this murder happened’, John surmises, ‘I’m the only one who thought that this was how The Woman died.’

‘And anyone Irene may have spoken to in the last four years’, Sherlock reminds him.

‘Hmm… but I’m the only one who _also_ knows exactly how Jeff Hope was shot’, John fires back. ‘Sherlock, is there a serial killer picking off innocent people because of my blog?’

‘This killer has murdered three people in eight days. It’s not a serial, it’s a _spree._ I wouldn’t be surprised if there was another one within twenty-four hours.’ Sherlock responds. ‘And no, not because of your blog, you barely mentioned Irene there. Though it may be the place the killer initially found out about the cases…’ he trails off, his words not reassuring John in the slightest.

‘Oh, and those cheap earrings clearly don’t belong to her, just look at the princess cut diamond on her right hand.’

‘I’m going to go out on a limb here and say their design is aimed specifically at you’, Lestrade comments.

‘Well done, Inspector’, Sherlock responds, sarcastically.

‘Boss?’ Donovan enters the room, keeping her eyes averted from the body; like Mycroft, she had clearly seen enough. ‘Just spoken to the second victim’s sister, the keyring can’t have been hers, she never owned a red setter – or any dog – she was allergic.’

‘But I did’, Sherlock tells her.

‘What?’

‘I had a red setter when I was a child. Redbeard.’

‘It really is all about you, isn’t it? What about the skull and crossbones the cabbie had?’ Lestrade asks.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, eyes glazed over as his mind retreats from the room, momentarily lost in a memory of his beloved dog.

‘He – er… wanted to be a pirate, when he was a kid.’ John answers for him. He looks guilty to be sharing such a personal detail, though it appears pertinent to the case. Lestrade giving a shy smile at the thought of a young curly-haired Sherlock playing pirates with his dog. Sherlock catches the look and huffs, irritated, turning on his heel and striding out of the bedroom. He finds his brother resting against the wall next to the living room, finishing up a call, and he walks right up to him, not stopping until they are toe to toe, with no room for Mycroft to back away.

‘ _What_ do you know?’ Sherlock asks, voice so low it’s almost a growl.

‘I’ve no idea what you’re-’, Mycroft begins, but Sherlock doesn’t give him a chance to finish, grabbing his brother’s arm, and in a practised fluid motion, he spins him round to face the wall, pulling his arm up sharply behind his back.

‘Sherlock!’ John shouts as he runs out of the bedroom after him.

‘These tokens are linked to me, to my childhood. Nobody else could know those details _and_ the specifics of our casework. I hadn’t even told John about the pirates – _you_ did.’ Sherlock pushes hard against Mycroft’s twisted arm. ‘Been talking to any more consulting criminals lately? Just how many people did you sell me out to?’

Mycroft may not be one for legwork, but he’s had plenty of self-defence training; with one quick manoeuvre he is out of Sherlock’s grasp, stepping aside into the living room to put some distance between them, rubbing his arm. Sherlock follows him and John moves forward, reaching for Sherlock before he can harm his sibling further.

‘Don’t try that again, Brother Mine.’

‘Why are you here, Mycroft?’ Sherlock tries again.

‘You _know_ why. These cases are linked to you, and I worry about you. Constantly.’

Sherlock sighs, clenching his jaw with the effort it takes not to lunge for Mycroft again. ‘I’ll ask you one more time. _What_ do you know?’

Mycroft signals for them to take a seat on the immaculate white leather sofas in the living room. He surreptitiously glances at John, contemplating asking him to wait outside, but in the end he doesn’t refuse the doctor’s presence. He sits opposite them, a pained look on his face. Like his brother, Mycroft is not one to give voice to his theories without concrete evidence.

Finally opening his mouth to respond, he is saved by the trilling of his mobile phone. Smiling almost apologetically, he frowns at the screen before answering, ‘Mycroft Holmes.’

What he hears on the other end of the line makes the blood drain from his face.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover | The East Wind Echoes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28691445) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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